Will You
by quote intangible
Summary: AU When the Pevensie's father returns from the war he isn't the same person. The war has changed him for the worse. Peter is willing to sacrifice almost everything to save his father from himself. But can he really be saved?
1. This is who I really am

Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fanfiction. The author is not making any money off of it. The Chronicles of Narnia, the Pevensies, etc, belong to C.S. Lewis and Co.

I have not forgoten about my other story, this one just sort of stuck in my head and wouldn't leave me alone. It isn't going to be very long though. I in no way meantany harm toanyone or anything, this is just how I felt Mr. Pevensie could have reacted after going through such a traumatic experience, so I guess you could say this is a "what if" story.

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* * *

Title: Will You **

**By: Death's Executioner**

**Chapter One: This is who I really am**

Peter's point of view:

I knew right away, when he stepped from that train, that my father was a different person. Pain replaced the bright gleam in his eyes and pure sorrow bore straight to the depths of his soul. His once proud shoulders were now hunched over in shame and his demanding stare had turned into a downcast glare. Even his walked had manifested into suffering as he staggered over to us. There were stories of pain told in every slow step he took.

It almost seemed as if he dreaded coming over to us. And maybe he did.

Edmund and Lucy were excited to see father again, but Susan and I shared an anxious look. We knew what war could do to people. Edmund knew too.

He just chose to ignore it.

As I watched him walk, ever so slowly towards the family he dearly missed, I knew things were never going to be the same.

My father hugged each of us reluctantly. His hug felt rather awkward and it lacked its usual comfort and love. His whole body radiated suffering and anger and it seemed to seep into my subconscious when he was close to me. The others felt it too. My mother's smile that had been plastered on her face since she found out father was coming home, faded into a frown. Tears, that would never fall, formed in Edmunds' eyes and Lucy suddenly lost her excitement, a sudden wisdom that Narnia had given her flashed through her eyes. A strained silence fell between us as we all stared at our father, expecting him to say something, anything…

I glanced at Susan as the silence continued. We had been expecting this, but we were hoping…we were hoping that things didn't have to turn out this way.

See, we had been through war. We've seen what it can do to people, what it did to us. We watched people die and we've nearly died ourselves. I knew how war could change you. And I could never forget what I've seen, what I've done. I haven't been the same since the Battle of Beruna. And I could only expect the same thing from my father.

But I wouldn't let him suffer alone like I had for so many years. Eventually I sought comfort in Susan and Edmund when I couldn't take it anymore. And just like they were there for me, I would be there for my father, because I knew what he was going through.

I was determined to do anything possible to help my father. It was just in my nature to want to help people. I can't stand it when other people are in pain. But perhaps that is my greatest flaw; the one thing that usually lands me in the most trouble.

* * *

Mr. Pevensie's point of view: 

I can still see his eyes as I watch him die, over and over again. The pain he felt as his light flickered out haunts, my dreams. He was the first person I ever killed. The first family I robbed.

I may not have stolen their money, but I did steal something more precious. I stole their son, their husband, their father, their brother. I stole his life when _my_ bullet tore through his heart.

I killed him. I killed him and countless others. It wasn't my fault, I did what I had to do, but that doesn't make me feel any better about it. I watched my best friend in the army; die before my eyes, believing that I would be the next to go. I saw bullets fly past me and strike down my friends and comrades. I can still feel the heat of the fire as it tore through our ranks. Even the smell of death lingers in my nostrils.

The memories of what I had seen would never leave me alone. They overpowered me. I can't even remember what my own wife and kids look like, because I couldn't get his eyes out of my mind long enough to remember their faces.

I couldn't go home to my family like this. I was about to fall apart at any moment, but I had no where else to go.

I couldn't go back to the person I was before the war. And I couldn't pretend like I could anymore. I was going back to the same family, the same house, the same job, but it just couldn't be…the same.

I stared out of the train window, anger twisting my features. Damn the world to hell for what it had turned me into. Damn the ignorant and damn the wise. I slammed my fist into the window and ignored the strange looks from the other passengers, they didn't understand. Nobody did.

I just wanted, needed the pain to go away, but it never would. I would always have to carry this with me.

The train screeched to a halt and my anger suddenly turned to sadness; this was my stop. I grabbed my meager belongings and headed off the train.

My family was waiting eagerly, Helen was waving frantically. I managed a small smile as I slowly walked over to them, dreading to see them. What would they think of me now?

Lucy was jumping up and down in excitement, tugging on Peter's arm and Edmund was smiling and waving enthusiastically like his mother, but Peter and Susan were different. I caught the anxious looks that passed between them and their saddened expressions as they stared at me, each gauging the changes made in me. They understood before I even managed to walk all the way to them.

I finally finished my slow stagger and Lucy jumped in my arms, but I flinched slightly before hugging her back. I had missed my dear little Lulu more than you would ever know, but the hug just didn't feel right. The same love just wasn't there.

I stepped back and looked at Lucy, and she looked at me with eyes that weren't so innocent anymore. There was a wisdom to her eyes that hadn't been there before and I knew that she wasn't the same little girl that I had left so long ago.

I hugged my wife next, but she didn't seem any different.

But after hugging Susan and Edmund, I noticed they too had changed.

I came to Peter last. He was so different, and I don't mean in just physical appearance. He had, of course grown quite a few inches, but he wasn't the same boy I had left either. Rather than a boy standing before me, there was a man. There was courage in his now proud shoulders and a depth to his blue eyes that no boy should have. They way he carried himself spoke of many years and wisdom well beyond his 15 years. There was a look in his eyes, something familiar to me. I didn't know what it was, but it scared me, shook me to my damaged soul.

Such depth in his eyes, such…understanding. It was all so confusing. What had changed them so much? What had been done to them while I was away?

What had happened to my children? What had happened to me?


	2. But I have to try

**Warning: **Child abuse and grammatical error. I've had a really bad day and don't feel like re-reading and revising this and fixing mistakes. I only wrote this cuz I feel awful and had to write something.

**Chapter Two:**

What did it matter anymore? What really matters anymore? Life would be better if we just had no conscience, it would be better if we never distinguished between right and wrong as children. Why do I have to care so much? Why do _I _have to feel this pain? I only wanted to protect my family. I wanted to protect my people, my country. Why do _I _have to feel so guilty for wanting to protect the things that I love?

I was fourteen when I first killed anyone. I wasn't ready for that kind of responsibility, for that kind of weight. No one ever really is. I try so hard to forget what I have done. But no matter how many times I try to wash my hands, no matter how many times I pray to Aslan for forgiveness, the blood of my people, and the blood of my enemies, will always be on my hands, always. There is nothing that I can do to cleanse myself of this guilt, because there is nothing I can do t bring them back from the dead and there is nothing I can do to alleviate the suffering of the family of those who died under my command.

Every time I returned from battle, I always felt guilty that I got to return home, when countless others never did. And I'd remember late into the night after a battle. Why did they have to die? Why did their family have to loose a father, a brother, a son? Why was life so unfair? Why is it always my fault?

This is what war does to people. It takes your heart and rips it out of your chest. After your heart has been sufficiently mutilated with hate and anger, it is viciously thrust back into your chest, a blackened and bleeding ghost of what it once was. And a torn heart cannot just be easily mended, memories cannot be easily forgotten.

I will always remember the first person I killed. I will always remember how their eyes widened in shock as a pained gasp escaped from their lips. How he then fell to the ground with wide eyes starring up at me, pleading with me to spare his life. He may have been the enemy, but that doesn't mean that he didn't have a wife and children waiting for him at home. He wasn't a monster, he had feelings, and he had a life outside of the battle. I was the only monster on that battlefield.

I didn't want to be a King after that. I felt like a horrible person who didn't deserve to walk away from the battle. But I had to do it, there was no other way…there was no other way. But knowing that doesn't erase the guilt, knowing that doesn't erase my memories and the pain they bring.

I'm not very good with feelings, and I hate expressing my emotions to anyone. I guess I just thought that they wouldn't understand and I envied them it. I resented them for not having to feel what I felt. I mean, yeah, Edmund had seen war, and taken lives, but he understood the necessity of it while I never did. He never blamed himself for the others deaths like I did. And Ed was too young to be burdened with my problems. Lucy, was, and always will be a child. She lives in a fantasy. She always thought that she could save everyone, that no one had to die. Even if they did die, they would be going to a better place, but what about the family left behind? What about the life they could have had had they lived? She just didn't get it. Susan tried to understand the most, but she never felt what I did, she didn't know…and I couldn't bring myself to tell any of them.

It gets better with time, but it never really goes away. Because I would always live in the "what ifs" and everybody else would live in the present.

But now, they think that Dad can be fixed. They think that we can just put some glue on him and put him back together. It doesn't work that way. Even if we did glue the broken pieces back together, there would still be cracks between the pieces. He'll never again be the man he was before he went to the war. My siblings just don't understand that, they believe that I can fix this, that everything can be normal.

And it can't, it just can't...but I have to try. I have to try for them…I have to try for me. We have to hope for the best, don't we? Because if we never have hope for anything, what would be the point in living?

I cringe when a bottle suddenly shatters against the wall. Father is drunk again. It'll be another night of sending my siblings to bed early and then taking care of my father and the mess that he makes. I send my siblings upstairs, and Susan looks at me sadly before she drags Edmund and Susan up the stairs with her. My mother has rushed into the room after hearing the crash, but I quickly shoo her away. I'll fix this mess, somehow, someway...

I slowly and cautiously begin to pick up the broken shards of glass off of the floor. I've gotten quite efficient at this in the last couple of days. I dare a small glance at my father who has been glaring at me since I first began picking up after him.

He is sitting on his chair, staring at something in particular, but at the same time nothing at all, sipping his alcoholic drink. Rage and pain contort his face into something unfamiliar. He sneers at me before turning his head away. Something familiar and welcome flash in his eyes, but only for a moment before it is replaced with anger. I know that he resents me. He resents me because he doesn't know that I understand.

He throws his empty bottle at me and I catch it with ease; he only gets more upset. He clenches his hands into fists, his knuckles turning white, his eyes blaze with fire, and he grounds out through clenched teeth "Get me another one, boy." I willingly oblige.

My father snatches the bottle from my hands angrily. "At least you're good for something, you worthless brat." I cringe at his words. "Now get out of my sight."

It's hours later when Lucy finds me, sitting in the kitchen in the pitch dark, waiting for my father to pass out for the night. Susan and Edmund follow her shortly after. Susan walks up behind me and throws her arms around my neck.

"I don't know how to fix this, Susan."

"It's not your fault Peter. There's nothing you can do." I know she's right, but I still feel disappointed, I still feel…worthless. Susan rubs my back soothingly and I lean gratefully into her embrace. The tension slips from my shoulders and my eyes slip closed as I let myself relax. I feel at peace for the first time since our father returned home.

"What are you brats doing down here?" The harsh words startle me as my body tenses again, the relaxation vanishing quickly. "I thought I told you to stay out of my sight." He says pointing to me. He never actually said that, but I don't feel it very wise to bring that small detail up right now to my drunken father. Lucy runs into my arms to hide from our father.

"Leave Peter alone." Edmund suddenly snaps from my right. I send him a warning look, shaking my head, no, at him. Ed takes the hint and backs down. Unfortunately my father sees the small message shared between us and scowls as I continue to calm down Lucy who is trembling in my arms.

"Maybe the three of you should go back to bed." I tell them. They nod their heads and stand up, but my father slams his bottle down on the table, making us jump.

"No, stay." He says in a vicious voice. His glare bores straight through me. He thinks I've replaced him.

"So, Peter, tell me, are you the man of the house now. You're dear old Dad too much of an idiot to look after his family anymore."

"Now father that isn't true." Susan replies calmly.

"Isn't true!!! Isn't true!!! So you think I'm a fool, do ya, Susan!! I'm not stupid. I fought in that war for you and this is how I'm repaid, with four selfish brats!!"

"Father…"

"That's right, I'm your father. You," he said pointing to me, "this is all your fault. Just think you can get rid of me, uhh."

"Father, you're not thinking rationally, you're drunk." Susan said as I continued to remain silent. I saw my father clench his hands into fists as a murderous gleam settled in his eyes.

"So this is the thanks I get…I think I need to show you brats who's boss around here."

"Father…" Susan began, but stopped short as his hand stopped mere centimeters from her cheek. The only thing stopping him from hitting his mark, was my grip holding his arm back.

"Go upstairs, Susan, take Edmund and Lucy."

"Peter…"

"Go." She nods silently and drags the younger two up the stairs with her.

"How dare you," my father says in a dangerous whisper, venom lacing his voice. I take a deep calming breath and don't stop his hand this time.

His hand connects sharply with my cheek. I stagger a bit, my back connecting with the wall. His left hand wraps around my throat and squeezes.

"You're worthless, you ungrateful brat. You just don't understand." He drunkenly rambles.

"I understand more than you think." I whisper. His hand around my throat squeezes a little tighter. His glazed over eyes show nothing but anger and contempt for me. His right hand comes out of nowhere and socks me hard in the gut, knocking the breath out of me. His hand releases its grip on my neck only to slap me hard. This time I stagger and fall to the ground, gasping for breath. He kicks me several times in the gut before staggering away to pass out on the couch. I got off easy.

I sit on the ground for a few moments to regain my breath before I slowly rise from the ground. I'll have a few bruises tomorrow, but nothing more. I walk slowly upstairs.

When I walk into my room, I'm not surprised to see Susan, sitting on Edmund's bed, waiting for me.

"Where's Edmund?"

"In my room." Susan presses a cool hand to my burning cheek when I sit down next to her. She sighs heavily.

"You're really going to go through with this?"

"I have to." She just nods her head. She doesn't try to stop me, and she doesn't tell me how stupid I'm being, she just nods her head because that is what I need her to do.

"Thank you, Susan." She smiles softly and hugs me lightly.

"Go to bed, Peter." I smile gratefully at her before slipping under the covers.

"Goodnight, Susan."

"Goodnight, Peter."


	3. But it's better if you do

First of all, there will be no incest in this story. I'm a big fan of Peter and Susan having a close relationship, but it's just close friendship between them. No incest, I promise.

And sorry for the long update. Well, I have to be in a certain mood to write this story and so far, the mood hasn't been forthcoming. And then, when I finally do start a new chapter, I get a couple of paragraphs done, and then I decide that I don't like it, so then I redo them, and then I don't know what to write. And then, I finally got into a groove and I wrote almost the whole chapter, and then just suddenly, my whole brain went blank and just decided to stop working…and well long story short, the point of the story is that it's been a long process to finish chapters and it's going to be a long process to finish the story. So sorry ahead of time for long delays, but I never don't finish a story, and in two weeks I'm gonna have a whole month off, so...

Kelsey Estel the TolkieNarnian (I like the name, interesting and unique) –thank you for the review and I'm glade you feel that way. I haven't quite decided where I want to take this yet and whether or not there will be a really tragic ending, or something happy, well not happy, but along those lines. And if I do make it tragic, I haven't decided who will be the tragic figure. And I haven't decided how...graphic I wanna make this either. So many decisions. But if you have an ideas, I'm always willing to listen.

Comments from anyone would be appreciated about the ending being sad or somewhat happy. Well anyways, on with the story.

Ohh, and this chapter goes a whole lot of nowhere, but I felt I needed to explain some things. The next chapter goes a whole lot of somewhere.

**Chapter 3: But it's better if you do**

Day by day, night by night, we died a little more. We survived through the gloom of the dark and the hopeless dreams of morning, through the thick fog of haunted pasts and the suffocating blanket of tainted memories, but we didn't want to anymore. I didn't want to…but this is all we have left.

I want to have faith, I want to keep hoping and believing, but sometimes it's hard to believe that there's anything more than this…this endless disintegration of everything we've ever believed in. It's hard to believe that we were ever happy, that not too long ago, we were Kings and Queens of Narnia. It's hard to believe that in the darkness there is a light to guide our ways, that there is life in the lifeless, that there is warmth in the cold hatred that the world has created in an endless supply. I want to be alive again, but at the same time I just want to feel numb so that this doesn't have to hurt so much.

I gingerly sit up after a restless night. The bruises on my chest are a sickly purplish color. The swelling on my cheek has been replaced and a nice dark bruise and a split lip. I have had worse, much worse, physically, but that's not the part of me that's the most damaged right now. I was expecting this, expecting it from the first time I saw him step off that train. I now how hard it is to go on living after what he's seen, god do I know, but I was hoping, I was hoping so badly that it wouldn't come to this.

When he first came home, his actions only reaffirmed my expectations. The first night was spent in awkwardness. We just couldn't communicate with each other, not when we've spent decades apart from. We hugged him goodnight, but it just wasn't the same. He'd distanced himself from us, he'd pushed us away and it was only his first night back.

Over the next few days he began drinking heavily, and it wasn't just to forget the war. I could see it in his eyes, the haunted look that spoke of memories plagued with death and guilt, hopelessness and pain, suffering and faith, survival...He wasn't just trying to forget the war though, he was trying to forget us. We are the cause of his pain; I am the cause of his pain.

Our constant presence irks him; it angers him so much he just snapped. How could he forget us if we're always there to remind him? So he began arguing with our mother. Instead of letting her comfort him, instead of letting someone be there for him, he pushed her away. The arguments that would follow were horrible. Night after night, long after the sun had set and late into the gloom of night, they would fight. Shouting nasty, hurtful words at each other till father passed out or mother caved in, her heart too sore to continue having hope in dad. The four of us just tried to survive those nights the best we could. We usually ended up sleeping in the same room. Our mother would usually wake us up in the morning, but sometimes I would see my father staring at us with a look of anger, resentment, and love on his face.

Our mother during those days, pretended like everything was okay. She would make excuses for our father, she'd pick up after his messes, and she'd take care of him as best she could. She went on in the mornings as if last night, and all the nights before that, had never happened. But I could see through that smile she plastered to her face everyday. It was as fake as the rest of us. But this false cheer just couldn't last forever. And I was only too right.

Nearly a week ago they stopped fight. There was no screaming coming from downstairs. My siblings and I weren't cuddled on one bed, offering comfort to each other to attempt to block out the noise, to attempt to block out reality. It was silent downstairs, except for the occasional noises our father would make.

This silence was even scarier than all of the fighting. We've moved on to stage two of the downward digression: hopelessness; the point where everyone just gives up.

It was nearly ten o'clock in the morning when I woke up and noticed that something was wrong. Mother hadn't woken me up for breakfast. I couldn't smell breakfast cooking and I couldn't hear her moving around downstairs. Susan was the first person I saw that day.

* * *

"_Where's Mom?"_

"_She's in her room."_

"_Why didn't she wake me up?"_

"_She didn't get any of us up. She hasn't left her room all day. I checked on her this morning and she was just sitting, staring out the window. She's given up, Peter, and we're not far behind." She said with tears in her eyes._

"_We'll get through this, Susan."_

"_No, we won't." _

"_I'll fix this Susan. I will."_

"_Peter."_

"_ I'm gonna make things better Susan. I have to. It's our only option left now. We can't go on like this."_

"_Peter, please don't do anything foolish. Please, don't let yourself be hurt."_

_"I can't gurantee anything, because I have to do something. I promise, everything will be fixed and I will do anything to keep that promise." _

* * *

Sometime later, after I vowed to make things better, after I vowed to fix everything, I failed to do my job. When I was passing my mother's room, I heard her sobbing hysterically. The door was slightly ajar and I peaked in on her silently. It was nearly dusk, but she was still in her pajamas, her hair was undone, her eyes were red and puffy, she was a mess. I knew then what Susan had meant when she said mother had given up. As I saw her there, crying for everything she had lost, I didn't go in, I didn't remind her of everything that she still had, I didn't try to give her hope, I didn't try to comfort her, I didn't do anything at all. I did nothing. I just backed out of the room and left her with her own misery and I walked away from her. I should have done something, anything. I still regret just walking away, if only I had said something to her, if only I had just gone in there, but I was a coward. I just couldn't do anything; I didn't want to have to deal with this. It's too much for me to handle, so I walked away, and now…everything is my fault…everything. 

After that, after we lost both of our parents, I realized that I had to take over. I couldn't shy away from this anymore; I couldn't continue to believe things would get better on there own. So I became King Peter once again. I had to rely less on my parents and they needed to rely on me more, only they didn't want to.

My father was drowning himself further and further into the past, deeper and deeper into himself, farther and farther away from us. He was distancing himself from us and we were distancing ourselves from him. I had to do something about it. I had no choice, but to take over. I assigned jobs for all of us to do, things to keep the house running smoothly, to keep food on the table, things to keep us preoccupied. My siblings looked to me for guidance, they looked to me to lay down the rules, and they looked to me when they needed comfort. My father began to resent me then. We were distancing ourselves from him, we no longer needed him, and we no longer wanted him. I had taken his place, or so it seemed in his eyes…no, so it was, but someone had to be the man of the house, someone had to be the adult. I was only doing what was right for all of us. It had to done, but my father didn't see it that way. I had to make him see.

I need to make him reclaim his authority. Even if he does resents me for it, forever. I would be willing to sacrifice everything to make everyone else happy, to fix this, this…problem. If only it was that simple…but after last night.

Last night, when he hit me, we digressed to stage three. He has forgotten…he has forgotten everything. He's even forgotten who he is, but that's what he's wanted all this time. Last night, what he did, it was inevitable that something like that was going to happen. My father's hate for me had steadily been growing, his resentment manifesting into anger that he could not control. It was inevitable that he would lash out. Lash out he did and lash out he would.

But we're at stage three; stage three is rock bottom so you can't go any lower than there. We can only go up from here, things can only get better.

Hopefully—

"PETER!!!"


	4. Guilt is the measure of a man

I had so much trouble finishing this chapter. It was really difficult trying to figure this one out, so I hope I did it okay. And I tried not to make things too graphic, but it just couldn't be help and well, you'll see…

**Chapter Four**

"PETER!!!"

My name was hissed with such anger that I was almost afraid to respond to him. There was such resentment in his voice and hate; hate for me and everything I stood for. I just had to be perfect Peter, Peter the Magnificent, Peter the King of Narnia, well none of that meant a damn thing here, none of it meant anything to _him. _I didn't want to go downstairs and have to listen to his drunken madness. I don't want to hear how everything is my fault. I already know that everything is my fault. But I walked down the stairs to face my father, because there was more than just anger in his voice.

"PETER!!!"

There was pain in his voice, suffering and anguish. A haunting chill wrapped its way around the edges of my name as he yelled it. It was disturbing, this hopeless despair. It's easy to live through despair, because there is always hope for tomorrow, but when there is no hope, when there is no reason to want to see what tomorrow brings, then what is the point of living? What is life then, when there is no reason to live it? What does that make us? Unimportant…that's what we all are, so what's the point anymore?

That's why I had to go; he was begging for my help. He was _begging_ for me to save him; he just didn't know how to do it.

"PETER!!!" Oh God…that wasn't my father, that was Lucy. What have I done?

We all make mistakes, but sometimes I wonder if I'm not making the biggest mistake of my life right now. I'm not so sure that this is the right thing to do anymore, but it's the only thing to do; the only hope that I have left. The only hope _we _have left. I have to do this…

Or at least that's what I keep telling myself, but maybe I'm just fooling myself; maybe I've been fooling us all and have been all along. Maybe…maybe this is how it ends.

"Let her go, Father." My father had Lucy's arm twisted behind her back, screaming at her to stop being so useless and to make dinner. Edmund and Susan had come running at the sound of Lucy's scream, an old habit for us, but I made sure they stayed behind me. Surprised by the authority held so naturally in my voice, my father let his crushing hold on Lucy's arm go. She immediately ran to me for comfort, throwing her arms around me in a crushing blow that grated upon fresh bruises. I could not stop the small wince that briefly betrayed me.

I stood tall and proud with my arms wrapped around Lucy. I noticed the questioning stare in my father's eyes, but I met his gaze straight on with my hardened battle gaze. My face, now a cool, calm, collected mask, held every inch of the man I was and my father wasn't. Our eyes were locked in a silent battle, but my father didn't have what it took to win against me anymore, so he looked away, knowing he wasn't the half the man I was at that moment.

I noticed right then, that my siblings had assumed the same look in their eyes as everytime we were faced with danger in Narnia. Edmund stood proudly behind me, his hand resting on my shoulder. He was every bit of the Just King he was on the day we left Narnia. Susan, her arms crossed, stood tall next to me, defiantly, with a glare that could freeze any enemy. And dear Lucy the Valiant, would not let a bruised wrist frighten her. This is who we are now; this is who we came out of Narnia as. The lessons learned there, the people we became, followed us here. We've changed, and our father could not frighten us, for next to the four of us, he was a sad, pathetic and decrepit old man with nothing left to give. He was like a baby trying to steal back his candy from a 900 lb gorilla. We were strong, courageous, levelheaded, wise, and so on and so forth. He was failing miserably at life. He was desperate and trying to cover it up with anger. I knew then that I could fix this…him. I can fix him; I can help him and will not let failure be an option.

My father noticed how small and insignificant he was compared to the four of us. It scared him. It scared him because, not only did he realize how weak he was in comparison to us and how much he had changed, but because he didn't even recognize us anymore. We weren't the same people, and he didn't know how to deal with that. He tried to cover up how scared and alone and sad he was with violence and I would let him do it till he realized how silly he was being.

"Go upstairs." Edmund staring at the bruise on my cheek did not want to go upstairs, but he trusted me. We had created an indestructible bond in Narnia and he trusted that I knew what I was doing, even though I really didn't know myself what I was doing. The trust that Susan and Lucy placed in me was so implicit that they too went upstairs and left me alone to deal with our father. I just didn't want them to get hurt. I was willing to sacrifice myself for the sake of our family, but I would not let them do the same.

My father turned his back to me then. He didn't want to see the man I had become during his absence; I wasn't a child anymore. He didn't want to be reminded of everything he'd missed, of everything he's missing, of everything he wasn't. He's seen what he did, he's seen how I fixed the problem, how easily I took control. He saw how I saved Lucy, he knew what I was sacrificing for them, and he knew that I was no different from him. He just didn't want to believe it, he didn't want that knowledge. It was easier to be ignorant than it was to face the facts.

"Where's your mother, boy? Why isn't she making my dinner?" He sneered, avoiding the problem.

"Mum hasn't left her room in nearly a week, father." I replied calmly, considering my next words carefully. "She's given up on you and has locked herself away in her room because of you." Okay, maybe that wasn't the right thing to say to my father. It sounded much better in my head, but he needed to know. His shoulders stiffened a little, but with his back still turned to me, I couldn't judge the effect that my words had on him. Therefore it came as a great shock when his fist came out of nowhere. Too shocked to do much of anything, I couldn't brace myself for the impending blow. His knuckles collided forcefully with my right eye and I stumbled backwards into the counter smacking my head into the cupboard. Pain exploded like fireworks in my skull, but I managed to keep myself standing.

My father pulled back, slightly startled himself by what he had done, but his anger did not dissipate. Instinctively, I rubbed the back of my head with my hand, a slight wince accidentally showing on my face as I rubbed the now tender area. Again, my father turned his back to me.

"Who's gonna make me dinner, brat?" He said, not wanting to acknowledge what he'd just done.

Not wanting to subject my siblings to his wrath I replied, "I will," but that was a wrong choice of words as well. It only seemed to make him angrier.

"Ohh, I see how it is. So now you're gonna replace your mother like the little sissy girl you are. You too good for us now! Think you can do better! Think you can just do it all!"

"Well someone has to, father. Someone has to be responsible and someone has to be the adult. What else do you expect me to do? Just lie down and give up like you have? Like mom has? I won't do that. I won't let this family fall apart because of this! I have a responsibility to my siblings, and I won't let them be destroyed because you won't let us help you! I have to do this and you know it. You know it! You're just too scared to admit that you've failed and that you're suffering; you're afraid to admit what that means. You don't want to face the facts and we're left hurting because of it. Well, admit it, dad! Admit it! You need me! You need me, just as much as they do!"

"I don't need you!!!" He whirled around, his eyes ablaze with fire and hatred; hatred for me. He wouldn't face the truth.

Predictably, I was struck down for my words. My father would not listen to words of reason. I landed hard on my hands and knees; my knees connecting sharply with the hard ground.

"I think you need to be punished for your disrespect, boy." I heard the ominous shift of material as he removed his belt. I removed my shirt to save him the trouble.

The sharp, sickening snap of leather as it whistled through the air turned my veins to thick, hard ice as I steeled myself for his abuse.

His belt landed painfully on my shoulders and burned fire as he dragged it across my sensitive skin. Besides a slight stiffening of my shoulders and a wince, I made no other outward indication of the pain he was causing me. He brought up his belt again in frustrated anger.

"I have done everything for this family," whack, "and this is what happens!" whack. "You think" whack "you understand," whack "but you just don't!" whack. "You don't know anything!" His last words were accentuated with three more painful lashes from his belt. I couldn't contain a pained gasp from escaping my lips as the last two landed in the same spot opening up a searing wound across my shoulders. He was still yelling at me, but I no longer paid any attention to him; I was too focused on my breathing to control the pain to pay any attention to his ramblings. It didn't matter what he was saying anyway.

He measured out seven more agonizing strokes before he suddenly dropped his belt on the ground. "You deserved it. He deserved it. It's not my fault…Not my fault. They…They're…" I looked up at him then and he glared at me before backhanding me roughly. "This is your fault. This is all your fault. Now clean up your mess." He was trying to justify his actions, but he just couldn't. He didn't have an excuse. So he practically ran out of the room muttering how I deserved it, and leaving me broken on the kitchen floor.

I wasn't sure what hurt worse: the pain from his belt or the pain from his words. Did he really not care about me? Is this really all my fault? Am I wasting my time trying to help my father?

Maybe…Maybe.

I didn't know what he meant by "clean up your mess," until I looked at my hands. They were covered in blood. Was I bleeding? Well that was a stupid question. I must be, blood doesn't just spurt from the ground, it spurts from your heart. A quick inventory of my injuries and I discovered that blood was running down my back leaving little trails of red on my skin and pooling on the floor. The back of my head was bleeding were it hit the cupboards making me dizzy with pain. I must have gotten blood on my hands when I rubbed it. Shakily I stood to my feet thinking to myself:

If there was blood on my hands, then there was blood on his hands too.


	5. Cast the First Stone

I am so, so sorry. I tried so hard to get this thing done earlier. This is about the tenth draft that I've made and the third time I've tried to post this chapter. Nothing felt right. Every time I put the words on paper, I would come back to it and just could not post it because it just did not sound right. So I think I've finally got it though, and I'm glad that I waited to post. There's a whole other part to the ending of this that I decided to cut last moment too, but I believe that it will be the beginning of chapter 6. I've finally decided on an ending too. YAY!!! I had so many options and then one in particular just jumped out at me unexpectedly. Anywho, again, sorry for the long wait. And yes his flesh, as in his skin, is crying, figuritively.

I hope this works...

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Chapter 5:Cast the First Stone **

I'm not dead yet. I know I'm not dead. I can still feel the pain where his belt tore through my crying flesh. I can still feel the tears of my flesh as it flows, crimson as a rose, down my tortured skin. I can still feel where my heart was before he ripped it out with his fists, with his anger, with his pain…I'm not dead. I can still feel the severed strands where our two souls once met in a bond of father and son, of friends. I'm still hurt, I'm still in pain; I still cry and feel, though I don't want to. I can still touch and be touched, I can still love, I can still fear, I can still breathe…and I can take it all away, he can take it all away.

I'm not dead, but I'm dying all the same…and I had so much life to give. He has given me life, but as he willed my first breath, he has willed my last. He's taken it all away.

My blood, his blood, it slithers down my back, hissing curses and torment, anguish and suffering, blood loss and blood debt. My soul cries with his, my heart bleeds for the one he lost long ago in blood he gave and blood he took. I can feel it, my heart; it flutters…flutters in fear. It quivers in agony, quakes in torment, stutters in pain, and then beats no more. I'm not dead, but I'm dying all the same. But there is nothing to fear, nothing but an empty heart, a hollow soul, the ghost of my father. It would have been better had he just died, left his misery on the battlefield, laid his torment to rest with the blood of his brothers. But since he survived, we're left with the pieces, we're left with his heartless cruelty; I'm left with my blood on his hands. Blood given and blood taken…Blood loss and blood debt. I don't really want him dead, but dead in body is better than in soul, heart, and mind. Better to be dead and alive, then living and dead.

Paradoxes, that's all we're left with; sad thoughts and desperation, a mounting weight of hopelessness as the contradictions of a life once loved pile higher and higher.

And it's always the same questions: How did it come to this? Whose fault is it? Who is to blame? I can't blame him, he never wanted this, he didn't ask for this. So does that leave the guilt entirely in my hands? Am I at fault?

If I could shape the world, mold it into a better place, I'd give one person the ability to change the world. Too bad it doesn't happen that way. We all think it does, but it doesn't. One person can not change the world. They can give their opinion, convince a few others, and then watch the world destroy itself; despite everything that person did to save it. The world does not change, people do not change on a whim, on a fancy, on a dream…they change on a nightmare, on despair, for pain. The world is a bitter, bitter place, giving you every opportunity to succeed, while at the same time, doing everything possible to make sure you fail. I hate the world, or maybe it's just my place in this world that I hate.

I didn't make the world this way, I didn't make it cruel and intolerable, I didn't cause the war to start, the people to suffer, the blood loss and the blood debt. It's not my fault and I can't change it either. I can't make the world stop being cruel and ignorant, I can't make the world happy. I can't make him happy.

I wish I could change him back, but that's a fool's dream and now I know…now I know.

I'm still sitting on the kitchen floor. How can I even begin to make myself move, to make myself understand? How can I even begin to grasp any of this? If I move, it makes this real. If I move…I just can't do it, not now. Not now.

My chest hurts, my tortured heart is failing. I clutch my heart, desperately trying to relieve the pain, but it doesn't work. It aches…it aches. Tears are pooling in my eyes and slowly running down my cheeks, but even that cannot relieve the agonizing ache.

My fingers dig into my chest, grasping for my heart, but its Dying, it's dying. I'm breathless, left gasping for the air that refuses to fill my greedy lungs; my heart is refusing to beat, to live. But I'm not dead, I'm not dying, but I am dying. I am dying. Can't you feel it?

"Why?" I whisper to the cold, empty room, "Why?" The tears spill faster down my crying flesh, pleading, begging on deaf ears; ears that will never hear their cries. Why? Why? Why can't we live our lives in happiness and bliss? Why do we grow up and stop believing? Why do we believe at all? Why?

My finger nails dig a bit deeper, trying to stop the cries, but the ache continues and will not go away. The flutter of fear will not go away. The agony remains; it buries itself deeper.

I remember a time when I still believed, a time when my father would always be there for me, a time when I could always find comfort in his arms. I remember a time when he was my hero, my guardian, my protector, my father. But those times are quickly fading; quickly being replaced by something much more…sinister. I don't even know this man who calls himself my father. If only the world was perfect and we all believed in something. Something happy, that is. But for now, as we all lie in the dirt with our flaws and our miserable sins, for now, let the world just go away, disappear from this house, this kitchen. Maybe if it all just went away, the tears would dry from my cheeks and the ache would vanish from my bleeding heart.

"Peter?" Ahh, I knew the real world would come calling sooner or later, but I refuse to answer it all the same.

"Peter, please, where are you? Are you okay?" I don't think I want to answer those questions. I don't think I'd like the answer. Where am I? I'm on the kitchen floor. How long have I been here? I don't know. I don't know. It could be hours or minutes, days…I just don't know and I don't think I want to know either. Am I okay? No, I'm not okay. I think the world sucks and that my heart is dying. I'm floundering in the dark and have nothing to grasp onto, not even a belief that someone will save me. I'm not even sure that I want to keep reaching for something that isn't there anymore; I'll let the darkness swallow me whole and tear me apart limb from limb, because there is nothing that it can do that could possibly be worse than this. So, am I okay? No. Am I going to admit that out loud to my siblings that I'm supposed to be protecting? No. Sometimes it's just easier to be ignorant; sometimes it's just easier not to care.

"Peter!"

"Go away."

"Peter." I hear a hurt whisper, but I feel no remorse, no guilt for the hurt I've caused.

"Go. Away." For once in my bleak existence, I hope they get the hint and go away. I hear only silence for a moment as they hesitate to move forward, then a series of whispers as they talk about me thinking I can't hear them, before two sets of feet patter away, but one pair still annoyingly and disturbingly walks forward towards me; they softly tread through the kitchen before stopping next to me, the owner sitting silently on the floor, their hand coming to rest lightly on my shoulder. When I finally open my eyes to peer cautiously at my unwanted visitor, I'm slightly startled to see Edmund there. But the surprise is only a faint flutter that slithers briefly past the ache in my heart. It doesn't really matter who is there, only that someone _is_ there.

Edmund wraps his arms around me, his own tears spilling from fearful brown eyes to mingle with the pool of anguish rapidly spreading on the kitchen floor. He offers comfort, soothing the ache, but not quite vanquishing it; for as long as he dares he sits there and he cries and he comforts and I accept his attempts, before the anguish once again grips my heart in a suffocating grasp, forcing the substance of life out of my soul.

"What are you thinking about, Peter?"

"How life sucks."

"Life is only as awful as you percieve it to be."

"Not this time, Ed."

"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." He said with forced cheer as he attempted to make me feel better. But I couldn't help wondering: when life gives you lemons and you make lemonade out of it, isn't that just as bad? You haven't done anything, you still have the lemons. All lemonade is, are diluted lemons. They're still there haunting you, taunting you and making your life miserable. So is anything really different when you make that lemonade, has anything really changed? Wouldn't you rather just take those lemons, cut them up into itsy, bitsy, pieces, stomp on them, set them on fire, and then throw the ashes away?

I would.

Edmund would too. He catches my eye and realizes the futility of it all.

"My heart aches, Edmund." He's silent for a while, he doesn't know how to respond to that, doesn't know how to comfort me; he can't make the ache go away.

"What are we going to do, Peter?"

"I don't know." My flushed cheek rests against his cool forehead, in a futile attempt to cool the fire burning within.

"This has to stop."

"But it never will."

"I won't let you."

"You can't stop me."

"This isn't right."

"No, it isn't," I agree. He sighs heavily and tightens his arms around me. I gasp in pain as he grinds against fresh wounds, but he does not loosen his hold on me.

"You're not alone in this Peter."

_Yes I am. _"I know."

"I…I…"

"It's okay, Edmund. It's okay." He fights to stop the tears, succeeding by will and determination. As he stands abruptly to his feet, a hard glint replaces the sorrow in his eyes. I wonder if his heart aches too.

"Let's get you upstairs."

"I have to…"

"I'll clean up, don't worry." He helps me stand shakily to my feet. My legs, numb from sitting on the ground for so long, refuse to hold me up. I nearly collapse, but Edmund's strong arms hold me up, guiding me towards my sisters. Leaning heavily on Susan, I become compliant in my sisters arms letting the two of them work to get me upstairs, but before we leave the kitchen I dare a small glance back at my brother. He's bent over on the ground, wiping up the blood, but he looks up and meets my eyes, I can only stare back, entranced in his brown eyes. A small smile briefly grazes across my solemn face. In those few minutes that we sat alone on the kitchen floor, he's given me more hope than I could of asked for.

As I look from Edmund to my sisters, I feel the ache loosen its hold a little and the life return to my dying heart, and I suddenly feel a little less hopeless and a little more alive.

When life gave me lemons, they gave me lemonade.


	6. Just let it rain

There might be some technical errors in here, if so sorry ahead of time. It's already AU though, so I guess it doesn't matter. And I feel really bad about not updating this sooner. I'm hoping to update again when I have Spring Break in a week from today. I wasn't sure if I got the right 'feel' in this chapter. It didn't have the instantaneous, this is right kind of thing going on, so I hope it works.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed. And thank you **Armageddon-incarnate **for pointing out sucks. I struggled with whether or not I wanted to put it in there and then just decided to, but you're right, it doesn't fit. When the story is finished, I'll go back and fix it.

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Chapter Six: Let it Rain **

"Just let it rain."

I can hear it now as I did then when I was just a child, not yet the age of four. It was a miserable day, the sun was lost to us and I sulked away in forgotten misery as the rain steadily poured down from the bleak clouds in the sky. As I stared sadly out the dark window, he came up to me, clasped his hand on my shoulder and told me to just let it rain. So I let it rain and I let the gloom wash away.

"Just let it rain."

I can hear it now as I did then when I was just a child, not yet the age of thirteen. It was a miserable day, and Edmund was once again upset with me. Miserable, I sat and stared out the window asking myself what I did this time and how I could fix it. He clasped me on the shoulder then and told me to just let it rain. So I let it rain wash the sorrow away.

Just let it rain.

But where is that rain now? It is still raining, but I feel something much more disquieting than soft moist tears against my skin. An unsettling storm is brewing just around the edges, but it's not rain that's falling from broken clouds; it's not soothing peace misting over my aching wounds.

Where has my rain gone? He took it, stole it from my shaky mind. The sun wilts and dies under his toxic touch. The moon cowers and hides from him.

Father, can you see the rose that hangs precariously in my grasp and rests lightly upon freshly packed dirt? Can you feel the life in your hands that slips away as easily as dust in the wind? Can you feel that dust and your hot breath as it blows harshly on your cool hands willing it all away?

Can you? No…I don't think you can. Not anymore.

But look at me now; I'm talking to nothing, as least not anything that will listen. It's useless, it's pointless, it's futile, yet I still try. The rain has dried up, the clouds have scattered and night has settled over the ambiguous sky. Poison falls unevenly from the harsh heavens and yet I still try to bring back the rain, to bring back the sun. But I can't make the sun shine on my despair any more than I can make it shine on a cloudy day. So why do I still try? Why do I still try when I know I will fail? Because there's nothing else left. There's nothing left, but despair and utter hopelessness and when life has succumbed to that level, there is no point in going on. That's just the way it is.

His poison burns through my sensitive skin leaving behind a shadow, crimson as a rose, on chaste untarnished skin. It hurts…hurts more than I'm willing to admit to anyone, even Aslan himself. But he already knows.

I can feel the sun of Narnia as it beats warmly upon my flesh. I can feel his soft warm fur, the sound of his comforting purr, but it's all erased with a heartless flick of his wrist and the sharp, sickening snap of leather. Where is Narnia now? Where is the rain?

It can't wash this away, though. No, no…I…no. Even if poison wasn't pouring from the sky with a vengeance; rain could not wash away the pain I feel, the pain we feel.

I ask myself everyday, when does life become fair? And the answer is always the same: never. See, life is like a closet. The kind of closet we feared as children. It's dark and cramped with cobwebs caressing every corner and monsters and demons are lurking just beyond sight; taunting and mocking they kick us into submission. We see those monsters, but no one believes us that they're really there. No one ever believed. But they are there, slithering around the room, waiting for the right moment to strike. And though we watch them like a hawk, they always catch us unaware. Somehow though, you'd always manage to win the battle and they would sulk back to their dark corners, licking their wounds and waiting for another opportunity to strike. Each time, though, it becomes harder and harder to fight them, each time they get stronger, each time our will crumbles a little more.

But there was always help, whenever it became too much for us to handle on our own, whenever our world threatened to fall apart we could always run to someone else, someone we knew would drop everything to help us, even if they didn't believe.

But now, that someone who is stronger, that someone who is wiser, that someone I could count on to always be there, isn't there anymore, not even the idea of him survives; just a hollow shell with one hand grasping a beer and the other clinging to desperation.

Where does that leave me? I'm still stuck in my closet, lost and alone, cold and unloved. My demons get stronger and stronger, my heart beats slower and slower, my soul aches more and more, each breath becomes harder than the last and with shaky fingers I reach for the hand that isn't there anymore. He's shut the door and locked it on the outside. He's locked me in my misery and there's no way to escape.

I handed him my heart, my life has always been in his hands, but with heart torn out and stripped bare before him, he just stepped on it. But he couldn't just step on it either; he couldn't just spit on it and stab me cruelly in the back, he locked the door too, hoping to just forget, hoping I would just die and leave him alone, but I can't. Where else would I go, what else would I do? What else is there to do?

It doesn't matter that I have demons and monsters in my life, everyone does, and it doesn't matter that I'm dying, everybody does. I can handle the monsters, I can handle torment, I can handle pain, but I can't handle being left alone, abandoned by…him. It's what hurts the most; it's what caused the pain in my bleeding heart. How could he do that me? Why did he do that to me?

In a world plagued by ignorance and cruelty we don't need the same mistreatment from the ones we thought we loved. There's supposed to be one place in this world that we can call home, one place where we can be protected from this cold, cruel world. But what happens when that one place ceases to exist? What happens when we loose the one place we could call home? What becomes of those of us who have nothing to look forward to anymore?

What happens to the heart they stabbed and shoved thoughtlessly aside?

It dies. It…dies. Ever so deliberately is beats slower and slower till it finally gives up and dies. Are we headed on that path? I think we're farther down the path than we'd like to think, but it hurts too much to acknowledge, so we waltz around the truth in ignorance, till one day we realize our heart has died, left us alone to suffer in sorrow, and there's nothing we can do to revive our long lost life.

When did we become a victim of time, a victim of fate, a victim of life? And why do we never realize that life has slipped through our fingers and we were helpless to stop it?

"Peter?"

"I'm fine." The lie slips easily from my mouth. If I was fine I wouldn't be dizzy from a concussion. If I was fine, we'd be up the stairs already instead of only on the fifth stair. If I was fine, I wouldn't be leaning on my sisters for support as we traveled slowly up the stairs, one agonizing step at a time. If I was fine, 'I'm fine' would not have been my automatic answer. A small smile graces Susan face and I know she's thinking the same thing I just was.

"Peter."

"Don't, please just, don't." I didn't need to fake the plea that laced my tired voice.

"It's okay, Peter, it's okay." They can say it so easily, but for me, I'll try to pretend like it is. But you can only pretend for so long…

Susan opened her mouth to continue, probably to soothe the ache she knew laid in my heart, but was stopped short by the sound of my father's voice emanating from the kitchen. My heart suddenly ached with an intense ferocity:

Edmund was still in the kitchen.

"Where's your brother?" His angry voice, muffled through the door, rang clearly in my ears.

"No—" I cried out, but Susan clasped her hand over my mouth to stifle the sound and roughly shoved me into the wall. I struggled briefly against her hold, I had to get to Edmund, I had to save him, but my vision darkened suddenly compelling me to stop my futile struggling.

"I thought I told _him _to take care of his mess." Belligerent, malevolent, compassionless, disturbing; I could feel his burning hate radiate through the walls and straight through my heart. I struggled again, trying to ease the intense pain, but Susan and Lucy pushed me harder into the wall; their bodies pressed tightly against mine in hopes of preventing me from doing something reckless. I could feel their hearts beat wildly in fear of danger. The wall grated harshly against fresh wounds, but I was too worried and upset to give much thought to the pain they were causing me.

"I made Peter go upstairs. He wasn't…feeling well. I will do it for him." I could hear the barely controlled anger in Edmund's voice and knew instantly that this would not end well.

"Did I give you permission to do that? Did _I _say that Peter could go?"

"Peter doesn't need your permission. And neither do I." No, Edmund, don't, please don't.

Our father slapped Edmund so forcefully that my cheek stung with his. My own pain completely forgotten I struggled harder to escape the clutch of my sisters, but they are not weak creatures and in my weakened state managed to keep me restrained. But I had to get to Edmund; I had to stop our father. If anything happened to Ed, it would be my fault. They had to let me go. I needed to know what was happening, I had to do something, anything. I couldn't let anything bad happen, I just couldn't. I had to protect Edmund, and my sisters, but their grip would not loosen. I was forced to wait and listen, but it tore me apart not to be able to help.

Susan was shaking her head 'no,' but I wasn't sure who she was telling to stop; me or my father.

"Get me a beer boy. And then go find your insolent brother and get him in here, so I can beat some sense into that stubborn ass." The door from the kitchen swung violently open as my father stormed out beer in hand. He was just a few feet away from us, so close we dared not to breathe. My sisters huddled closer determined not to be seen as he turned to face the kitchen again. "You better find him quickly and before I do or that boy will not be able to move tomorrow." Susan and Lucy both looked at me worriedly, but I knew that my father only had one thing on his mind: getting drunk enough to forget the world existed. It wouldn't be long now.

My sisters were too frightened to move. A few minutes later with my back still pinned excruciatingly to the wall and my concerned gaze still fixed at the kitchen door, Edmund stormed from the kitchen, his eyes ablaze with unnatural fury. He punched the wall angrily before stomping to the stairs. He jolted backwards, surprised to find us still on the stairs. I tried to move to catch his eye, but was forced to clench my eyes shut in pain.

"Let him go, your hurting him." Edmund nearly yelled. Susan and Lucy immediately let go, but I staid where I was, back pressed to the wall. My forgotten pain suddenly flared violently; I was rendered motionless by the ferocity of its attack. Someone's hands grabbed my hands and stopped their persistent shaking and though my eyes were closed, I knew instantly that it was Edmund.

My labored breathing grated harshly on my ears, and tears stung my eyes threatening to fall from the pain I ignored for too long.

He gently pulled me forward away from the wall so that I was resting against him. He didn't try to calm and reassure me with platitudes that we both knew were lies anyway; we just stood there till the sharp spike of pain dulled enough for me to walk up the rest of the stairs. It wasn't safe to stay where we were any longer than necessary.

"Come on Peter; let's get you up the rest of the stairs."

"But," I said opening my eyes, letting them rest on his reddened cheek, "I can't."

"Peter, don't worry."

"But I won't let him."

"It won't happen, don't worry."

"You can't guarantee that."

"No, I can't. But Peter, you can't do this to yourself. It's not your fault." I couldn't meet his eyes because I couldn't tell him that it wasn't my fault, so up the stairs we went to wander through the darkness.

"He won't, Edmund, he won't."

"I know, Peter, I know."

The poison beats steadily down on us as we stagger up the stairs. The broken clouds squeeze out tears of anguish destroying the last remains of our lingering hope.

He used to tell me to just let it rain and wash it all away.

Just let it rain.

But I've learned today, don't let it rain so much you drown.


	7. The whisper of despair

This chapter got suddenly and inexplicably dark, like uber dark. Darker, I think, than my other chapters. I'm not quite sure what fueled this burning rage that inspired such darkness. It actually got so dark that I had to edit out parts of this chapter.

Thank you Amy, NarnianMelody, keketra, LoveAroundEmbers, armageddon-incarnate, pollypocket911, OperaDove and melxs for reviewing. You spur me on to keep writing. It wasn't a month between updates this time! Your encouragement is working. So Thank You.

OperaDove- well the ending...depends on your definition of happy. I don't want to give too much away, but I will say that it's...ambiguous. And as for Peter, I think he's lost it too. Sometimes, when I go over these chapters, days later, I sit and think to myself: I can't believe I wrote that. I know it's not much of an explaination, but it's the only one I've got.

melxs- I know Susan hasn't been a major character in the past few chapters, but I really wanted to show interaction between Peter and all of his siblings, but Susan will have a larger role in coming chapters and the in the ending.

pollypocket911- I try for that, sort of, punch in the last line. Thanks for noticing and thanks for reviewing.

armageddon-incarnate- I was really worried that the last chapter didn't have the right tone and the right mood, so I'm really happy when you say it clicked for you. Your reviews are so helpful, Thank you.

LoveAroundEmbers- Your review leaves me speechless...with happiness! I love to explain things symbolically and metaphorically which usually confuses my friends and family because they never get it. So your review makes me really happy, because that's what I was trying to go for.

keketra- Why thank you. (blushes) I know I take forever to update, and I'm sorry. I'm just happy you stuck with it despite my slowness.

NarnianMelody- I don't know what to say. I'm just so thrilled you like it. And I know I've said it a million times, but I feel so bad about how long it takes me to update. So this time around, it didn't take me a whole month. I've been feeling creative.

I hope this isn't too dark still…

**Chapter 7: The whisper of despair**

Two days later, wrapped up like butchered meat, with raw wounds healing under itchy bandages, and even rawer rounds refusing to heal at all, I stand in the doorway, arms crossed and shoulder leaning lightly on the frame, staring at the man passed out on the couch wishing he would just d…go away.

_Red whispers sighing across broken skin._

But I can't believe that. I can't sink to that level. I can't be that person.

_Red poison dripping from the tips of your guilty fingers._

The effects from my concussion have flittered away. Dark bruises fade under thin cloth and gazing, worried eyes. They see, and yet they do not see. Red welts, irritating, itchy, more than just annoying, scabbed over under white, soiled bandages and sighing in pain with every sudden movement…even those heal with time and care. But some wounds go deeper, some wounds never scab over, some wounds can be bandaged, but never healed, not even with time, care, and…a little love. Not even forgiveness can heal the wounds that pierce your heart. That pain never goes away.

_Red tears dropping from your shame-filled eyes._

Angrily, I rip away the useless bandages. Two days later and I still fear the pain that drove him past the brink of madness and straight into the depths of incoherent passion.

_Red whispers sigh across your bruised knuckles…_

Two days later and nothing has changed.

_Red poison stains the leather of your belt…_

Where is the light that traveled through my eyes and into your darkening soul? Where is the breath I sharply inhaled, but never let go? Has he stolen it from me? Raped the sleep he never let me have? Buried his fist so far into my heart that he forgot the beat of his own?

_Red tears splay across your twisted face…_

He stopped his beating heart for a moment of rest, let it dine with the emptiness that married his mind, but he never let it come back. Then he shoved his belt so deep into my fevered skin that my heart died too. Two beating hearts murdered by the callousness of empty dreams and forgotten happiness…desperation…killed in a fit of desperation: The story of the world.

Yet as my heart bleeds for him, so does my broken body as I suffer beneath him.

_Red blood pools beneath your feet._

Two days later…two days later and nothing has changed.

_Why can't you wash away the red stains?_

Bury me. Bury me in the grave you dug for your pathetic death. Bury me in the shadows of your misery. Bury me in the ashes of your burnt desire.

Bury me underneath your dead weight.

Your worthless soul flees to the deepest chambers of the land emblazed in flame and you drag my soul with yours, into the depths of no return. You drag me to the land of haunted souls where I, we fit right in. Yet…

I go where you go…unwillingly.

Two days later…

…two days later.

"Peter?" A soft voice whispers behind me, but I dare not turn around.

"Lucy." I say dismissively, my eyes never leaving my father's prone body lying lazily on the couch. The tension has been mounting these past two days; the air has become so thick with it that even breathing has become difficult. His anger grows day by day; his guilt strengthens every time he sights one of us; his pain fuels his rage. He will explode, in a violent outburst, soon, very soon. I'm surprised he lasted two days. Something will happen; it's only a matter of time. I only hope I can shield them from his fury when he finally unleashes his demons.

His hand twitches in his sleep and I tense in anticipation. I may be a little over-cautious, but I can't afford not to be.

"Peter?"

"You shouldn't be down here, Lucy. Go back upstairs."

"How long, Peter, how long?" She cries her voice barely above a broken whisper. I glance over my shoulder at my distraught sister. Tears brim in her eyes, her face is a shadow of misery and yet I'm torn between keeping watch and going to her. I can't afford to let my guard down, not in a situation this…delicate; I have a responsibility to protect them. But I also have a responsibility to be their brother, to be there when they need me. And right now, Lucy needs me.

I turn around, leaving my post, and let my sister crawl into my arms.

"This can't last, Lucy. Something will give sooner or later."

"How can you be so certain?"

"I just know."

"What do you know that we don't?"

"I know nothing more than you."

"But you've got it all figured out, don't you? Right from the very beginning, you've had it all figured out. You're playing his game. You've seen something we've yet to see, guessed something we've yet to comprehend."

"I can't be certain."

"But you still believe it all the same and now you're doing everything you can to stop it."

"Perhaps."

"Tell me, Peter."

"No, you wouldn't understand."

"Like I don't understand why you are trying so hard to stop it? I know you. I may not know what you foresee will happen, but I know you and I know that you don't believe you can stop it. So why try?"

"Because I have to do something, Lucy."

"I know you do, Peter, I know, but that still doesn't answer why."

"It does. And it doesn't." I look away, unable to meet her eyes. They just couldn't understand...this, any of it. That's not to say I did either. "It won't be like this forever, Lucy. We've been through some tough times before and still survived. We will get through this, we will live once again. We must whether the storm before the sun can soothe away the damage and let peace settle once more." I tried my best to look convincing, but I couldn't expect her to believe what I didn't.

"Just let it rain."

"Yeah." I somehow managed to choke out. She just nodded and hugged me closer. "Let's get you to bed, sweetheart."

"Will you tuck me in?"

"Of course." I glanced once more at my oblivious father before leading my sister upstairs.

There was no sign of Susan or Edmund when we entered her room, so I tucked Lucy in. Pulled the covers up to her chin, placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and bade her goodnight. I could not do much more than that.

As I turned to leave, she grasped my hand, her pleading eyes boring into mine.

"It's not the same this time, Peter. This storm, the rain, is not the same. Don't let it destroy you. It's not your fault. You don't have to fix it." I pulled my hand out of hers and walked towards the door.

"You can't save him." My hand faltered on the handle; hesitation evident in my tense shoulders as her words stung deep.

"Goodnight Lucy."

"Peter," she sighed, but I was already out the door. Closing it softly behind me, I prepared to keep my vigil, but noises from inside my room stopped me. I grasped the handle, determined to walk in, but couldn't.

"Oh Edmund, I know." I hear Susan sob through the door. I could hear both of them crying and could imagine them embracing, trying to fight the darkness that threatened to overwhelm them. As if there hug could somehow protect them from the whispers of demons that raged around them threatening to destroy their mind with despair. Resting my head against the door, I sighed and let go of the handle. I could not go in there, I just couldn't. So I walked away, and practically ran back down the stairs.

But as soon as my eyes could see again, I stopped, rested my forehead against the closest wall and grasped at it with my hands, forcing my tears not to fall, wondering how…no, why?

We were falling apart, piece by piece, heartache by heartache. There was only so much we could handle, and though we were wiser and older than most kids are age, this was not something we could handle; this was not something we could deal with. This…this just wasn't right. It wasn't…things weren't supposed to be this way, ever, not only for us, but for everyone. This…

I don't want to talk about it anymore.

Suddenly and brutally, a hand clasped over my mouth and strong arms wrapped around me pulling me forcefully away from the wall. Instinctively I struggled to free myself from the frightening grasp that was slowly tightening. As the initial panic wore off, though, I realized it was my father who had me pinned and I stopped struggling. I'd never get free from his powerful grasp, never.

He slammed me into the wall, his heavy body pressing against mine, his hot breath ghosting over my ear. "If you want to be the adult in this house, then you'll take over all of their," he paused, "duties." I squirmed in his grasp. No, he, he couldn't…he…he wouldn't. No, no…no… Tears fell from my eyes at the mere suggestion, but he simply pulled away.

"Baby," he hissed, his dark eyes clouding over. "I won't have a girl for a son." He said as his fist connected with my cheek. I closed my eyes and tried very hard not to be there at that moment, I just wanted to disappear as shame crawled up my cheeks in a red blush. I wanted to creep into a dark corner in my mind and disappear. As he punched me again, I tried so hard to let my mind wander away from…him, from this, from this moment and I succeeded, partially. I knew everything he was doing, but I just couldn't feel it, not anymore. I slid down the wall and he kicked me in the stomach. Stepping on my hand, he forced me to lie flat on my stomach. I heard him undo his belt and cringed, though I was strangely…relieved.

Whack. His belt connected with my shoulder blades, but I didn't cry, I didn't flinch, I just lied there. Whack. It landed painfully on my lower back, opening up old wounds and tearing through new flesh creating deeper and more painful wounds. I could feel the pain, but I couldn't _feel _it. It was just there. I was completely numb. Whack. I couldn't even tell you were that one landed. My back? My thighs? My heart? There was no difference, not anymore.

He measured out ten more painful lashes in my tender flesh, ten more lashes across my swollen heart; ten lashes closer to my grave. He kicked me again, but this time there were no words. There were no excuses only the sound of his shuffling feet as he stumbled away. And all I could do was just lie there, completely dead in more ways than one. But I couldn't just lie there forever letting the whispers of his abuse lull me into a dreamless sleep; I'd never get back up. So pulling myself off the ground, I calmly walked up the stairs. Tears were cascading down my face and deep, anguished sobs were escaping from my lips, but I couldn't _feel _it.

Everyone has there breaking point. Perhaps this is mine.

"Peter!" Susan gasped. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

"Peter." Edmund had heard the commotion and came rushing out the door.

"Be quiet or you'll wake up Lucy." I said between sobs and looked away. I couldn't deal with this, them right now. They were suffocating me. I needed to be alone. I couldn't…

Besides the swelling around my eye, they probably couldn't see anything else physically wrong. That they could deal, physical pain was easy to heal. It was the sobbing, however, that unsettled them, me. That…this was just wrong. Peter the Magnificent does not sob. They cornered me and I had to get away from them. I began to panic, they were only trying to help, but I could feel myself hyperventilating. Before they could stop me, I pushed through them, walked to the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it shut. They banged on the door, shouting.

"Peter, please, what happened?"

"Are you okay? Let us help, please."

They could not help me. "Not now, please just go away. Please." Something in my voice must have scarred them, because they walked away: Just walked away. I slid to the floor and cried. I tried to calm myself down, but my sobs would not stop; small wonder. I couldn't even begin to understand. I could feel his hands on me, could feel his breath as it ghosted over my ear, could smell the alcohol and feel…I could feel the pain; smell the blood that was still flowing. The nausea flared up and I emptied my stomach, but I didn't feel better. I still felt ill. I could still feel his belt as it whispered across my skin in phantom lashes. I could still feel…him, enjoying every moment of my pain. I could feel the agonizing burn of fresh welts as they angriliy bleed and the sharp throb of my wrist where it sighed in pain from his heavy boot. I could still feel every thing, and yet I could not _feel _anything.

So I cried till my head hurt and the tears in my eyes dried up.

And my heart continued to ache, screaming in anguish to the point where I did not think I could stand it anymore. The pain consumed me as fire flowed from my heart to burn away any hope or confidence I had left. With knees drawn up to my chest and eyes squeezed tightly shut, I clasped my hands over my ears to drown out the whispers of despair that spread from my heart to my mind. It hurt…oh Alsan, it hurt. And I just wanted the hurt to go away, but the despair continued to whisper to me. It reminded me of my failure, reminded me of the pain I had tried to become numb to. It whispered hopelessness into every crevice of my battered mind. There was nothing left now, but despair. Despair and desperation. I shook my head to remove the blanket of despair, to feel something else besides utter darkness, but it had smothered everything else, replaced even the memory of my siblings with a dark gloom that crept like thunder clouds over green meadows destroying everything in it's path and leaving a trail of devastation behind it. Even Narnia was destroyed by my clouds.

They could not save me now.

What I had tried so hard to stop, what I had sacrificed my hope, my faith, my light for, would still happen. No more, I had nothing else to give. What will happen, will happen, no matter what I do.

No more, I can't do this anymore. Not anymore…

We don't live anymore...only in our dreams, now smothered by our despair.


	8. My eyes see what you cannot know

Random Quote: "It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone."

—Rose Kennedy

Random question: Do I use too many … in my chapters?

Random Rant: This chapter is a mixture of confusion…enjoy. There were a lot of different things that influenced this chapter and none of them are happy things…beware. If it sounds like I'm ranting in places, it's because I am…on with the story.

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**Chapter 8: My Eyes See What You Cannot Know**

The empty book that held my soul was once two bright blue eyes. But now they're just two dark and misty grey orbs that reflect…what do they reflect? The sun? The moon? The world? Everything, but my soul. Perhaps death, perhaps hope?

Perhaps they don't reflect anything but darkness anymore. I could once trust my eyes to speak the truth, but I cannot trust what I do not know to be. My eyes are useless now; the only thing they're good for is seeing, but what they see turns my eyes a darker shade of grey, for all they see is pain.

The empty book that held my soul was once two bright blue eyes full of life, love and happiness, but those pages of my book are gone and filled with stories of suffering and letters of anguished tears. My eyes see that the empty pages have been torn out and replaced with deep, dark, black holes that suck away the ground beneath my feet. Quickly I flip through my book to find the ending, but the ending has been written in blood from agonizing wounds. So many possibilities, so many choices, but only one conclusion, only one end that I don't get to choose. Or maybe I did.

My eyes have become a sick and twisted reminder of everything I had lost. But I can not change what I have done. I can not force my eyes to be bright blue anymore if I am no longer here. So instead I'll settle for the dark, misty grey that has invaded and captured my eyes. I have no choice. I shouldn't be surprised though. Isn't this what I wanted? I wanted to be numb, I wanted to forget, I wanted to not care anymore, so I put everything that made me, me, in a box, a steel trap in which there is no escape, and I locked the door, the only way out. Only now, I've lost the key and there's no way back into my heart, my soul, or the part of my mind that is the most important to me…and the world just stopped. It didn't stop spinning, the people didn't stop breathing, the Earth didn't fall into the sea; the world just stopped surprising me. The violence, the hate, the cruelty, the pain and suffering that plagues even the kindest of people…why should I care anymore? It's all the same and no matter what I do I cannot stop the world from hating and destroying everything it has created.

If only that was true. If only I didn't care anymore, if only the world would just stop spinning, if only…

The world is cruel, but it does surprise me. The people still hate, but I do care, I do and it hurts. It hurts me how cruel people can be. I just want to cry, breakdown screaming at the world. I just want to lock myself in my box and pretend that nothing happened, that nothing like that could ever happen. But the sad, anguished truth is that it does happen. And every time reality strikes viciously and shamelessly, I, too, suffer with the countless victims as I loose more hope and faith in our dying world. And it hurts, it hurts, deep down in my soul and heart, where that small part of me, that's still uncorrupted by the worlds' pain, lies. That part doesn't understand any of this. I don't understand how people can deliberately hurt other people. I don't understand…I just don't understand why.

But it's not like anyone understands me either.

I tried to kill myself today. Do you understand that? I don't.

But I can't say that I tried really, because I didn't…I almost tried to kill myself today. But no, almost tried isn't quite right either.

I thought about killing myself today. To me, that is like trying to kill myself. I might as well have, but then I thought, what kind of person would I be if I actually went through with the idea? What would my siblings think of me? What would they do without me?

How could I even consider leaving them behind? It just wasn't an option.

But still, the thought had been there and that scares me. It scares me to the very pit of my being. It scares me more than my father does and I shrink away from the very idea. How could I even think something like that? I'm not supposed to be this weak. I'm not supposed to think things like that. I'm not supposed to be this unhappy, but then again, no one should ever be this unhappy and there are plenty of people out there who are much more unhappy then I am:

Like my father.

But then again, what's the point? I say, there are people who have it much worse then I do. But when I think that, what does that make my problems? It makes my problems unimportant. And then what does that say about me? It says I'm unimportant. _I'm_ unimportant. It means no one cares. It means I'm all alone in this world with nothing left. There's nothing to live for and nothing to die for; absolutely nothing. So what does that make life? It makes life meaningless. So I don't want to hear how much worse it could be. I don't want to hear about how good I have things. I want to hear why life isn't meaningless. I want a reason to keep on living and fighting. I want to know that things will get better. I don't want to know how things could get worse.

Why does no one understand that? Why does no one understand me? When such things are said it just makes me feel a little more depressed and a little more…

No. I won't say it. Saying it makes it real and this can't be real. The problem is, I'm not afraid to die, I know this; especially if it meant protecting those I loved. When...if it comes down to that, I will accept my fate with grace and dignity. But I thought only of escape, a brief flitter of a thought that was gone as quickly as it had come. But it was still there. I pressed harder on my injured arm to drown out the guilt. How could I think of just abandoning them with my father and just breaking my promise? How could I just think of abandoning everything I've tried so hard to accomplish? It just isn't possible that I could think something like that.

But I did. I did. And I can't guarantee it won't happen again. Perhaps that is the worst part of all this. I can't control it. I can't control any of this, anymore than I can control the time that's quickly ticking on and stealing our lives that silently acquiesce.

I don't want to be another beaten down and tired victim of this cruel, violent world. I need to fix this, no I am fixing this. They'll never forgive me but this way...this way they'll be better off.

It's my fault. I shouldn't have made that box. I shouldn't have shut out the world. I shouldn't have tried to hide. I shouldn't have deliberately lost the key. I just shouldn't be so surprised that I can't care anymore, that I'm numb to everything. It is, after all, what I wanted…

But one thought managed to flitter through my tightly sealed box. And that one thought just had to be death. I'd gladly give my life to protect my siblings, my people, my country, but this…wasn't the same, nor could it ever.

How did I end up here? Has the world's senseless violence finally brought me to my knees? Have I finally lost the will to keep fighting?

I think I have.

I know what's going to happen, I know the ending. They haven't gotten to that part of the book yet, but I see it as clearly as if there was a golden path laid out before me. I know what's going to happen. I know that all my suffering is in vain and yet I still try, I still push forward. Why I try? I'm not quite sure. I wish to save what I know cannot be saved, but I try anyway. Because I have to, I have to. I just can't give up. I can't fail.

Please, oh Aslan, please…

I clutch my arm tightly to my chest. It throbs with pain as does my back and chest, but I don't care, not as much as I should. Edmund and Susan had disappeared, only to come back some time later, pounding at the door, begging me to let them in. They are still there, pleading, begging, but I don't need their help this time. I don't need them.

I splash some water over my flushed face, wash my own back, wrap my own arm, and chest. This time, this wasn't something they needed to, nor did they ever. Only then, as soon as I put on my shirt and tucked it in, did I unlock the door.

They gasped in surprise for what they did not see. A dark bruise was sprouting on my cheek and my arm was wrapped, but otherwise, I looked perfectly fine, except for my eyes.

Those I could do nothing about; they just refused to be bright blue anymore. And now there was nothing I could do to change that.

They seemed to notice what I had lost. Edmund wrapped his arms around me, but I tensed, not quite accepting his hug. He only hugged me closer and I gasped in pain, forcing myself to resist the urge to shove him off.

"Peter…"

"No."

"But Peter…"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I do know, I do, and my answer is still no."

_Okay, Peter, okay. _I imagined hearing them say, but they said nothing, because it wasn't okay.

"Maybe you two should go to bed."

"No."

There was a tense moment of silence where Edmunds' eyes searched deep within my own, but he would find nothing there, nothing but an empty book now filled with sorrow.

"Edmund, we should do as he says." Susan, noticing the tension, did he best to break it. She ushered a protesting Edmund into his bedroom, whispering fiercely at him to stay put before she shut the door in his face when he tried to follow her out.

"Susan, don't."

"Peter, I'm not going to pretend like I know everything that is going on, but I'm not going to pretend like nothing happened either. I know you're just trying to help, but you need to stop."

"Susan, you don't know."

"Peter," she yelled in frustration and I flinched away from her. "Peter," she said more softly, "please, just let us help you. I'm here for you; we're all here for you Peter. I don't like seeing you get hurt because it hurts me too. Please, Peter, please stop this."

"You can't help this time, Susan, none of you can. There's nothing you can do."

"Peter, just tell me, what is it. Please, tell me." She pleaded.

"We're not going to be okay." I whispered. "And yet I try anyways to make it okay. I love you Susan, and I love Ed and Lucy, Mother, and even Father, but we will never be a family again. No matter how hard we try, even if Father suddenly changed and everything went back to normal, it wouldn't be the same; we wouldn't be the same and it can never be okay, ever again. But I still have to do something. I have to do something so that you and Ed and Lucy can move on." Her sad eyes dulled just a little bit, but still enough for me to notice. Tears pooled in her eyes. She understood, just like I did.

"Peter, no."

"Just go to bed, Susan, there's nothing you can do."

"I can't convince you otherwise?"

"I only want what's best for guys and this is what's best."

"There has to be another way Peter."

"And what do you suggest Susan, we just give up and give in?"

"Isn't that what you're doing?"

"It's not the same."

"It is and you know it. You can't do this Peter."

"Susan."

"Promise me you won't Peter."

"I can't promise you that."

"You can't be serious Peter. You can't do this. I don't know what sick, twisted logic is telling you that this is okay, that this is for the best, but it isn't."

"I knew you wouldn't understand."

"Peter."

"No, you don't understand. You don't know. Just stay out of this Susan. There's nothing you can do and there's no way you can stop any of this. It was bound to happen anyway."

"Peter."

"No, Susan just go to bed." She jumped in surprise at my harsh tone and nodded too stunned and disillusioned to do anything else. But my grey eyes would not soften. My steely gaze ended our argument as she sadly went to bed.

I knew she wouldn't understand.

"Goodbye, Peter." She whispered with her back to me.

"Goodnight, Susan, goodnight."


	9. The Threat of Truth

**Warning: **Violence and...possibly disturbing images

This chapter has not been revised, so sorry for any mistakes ahead of time.

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Chapter Nine: The Threat of Truth**

The moment of truth now stands before me…it's just one moment in time, an insignificant dot in the span of our lifetime. Its funny how years and decades fly by so quickly, yet one moment in time passes by so slowly. How this one moment, so insignificant compared to years, decades, and centuries, yet this is the moment of truth, this is what it all comes down to…this moment…this moment of truth. This small piece of life and history…this moment.

I've been waiting for this moment.

His dark eyes, lost in the vast expanse of his even darker memories, stare at me. They don't see me, they don't see fresh bruises, they don't see scars and hopelessness, they don't see a broken bleeding heart that's slowly dying, they just stare at me lifelessly; lost and alone, those dark eyes stare at me…and they see nothing.

Crawling into a dark hole that lies deep in a dark cave far away from wandering eyes, I hide there, waiting for his gaze to pass me by, but it never does. It lingers, looking right at me, staring through the darkness that smothers us like the night when the moon has fled. Despite the huge expanse that separates us, despite the angry cloud hanging between us that whispers despair and moans with hate, despite the Earth shattering emptiness that sucks away our lives and crawls like spiders around us, he stares at me, but never sees me.

"Father."

…his eyes blink once…

…and then once more…

…but Silence…Dead Silence…Heart stopping silence. He doesn't speak. He doesn't move. He doesn't even acknowledge my presence.

He just stares at me…lost and alone, his dark eyes stare at me…and see nothing, nothing important at least.

Isn't that the truth…

What do I say to his silence? How do I react? How should I react? Do I even care? Can I? Perhaps that is the question, can I care?

I want to say no. I want to say no so badly, but I can't. I do care, I do. My vision begins to blur as I numbly realize that tears are streaming down my face. I don't care, I don't care. I. Don't. Care…

But I do. I care. But there's nothing to do for it. So we stand there and stare at each other, each gaze as dark as the others, each pain as terrible as the others, each secrets as painful as the others.

A spell has been cast on us, but not one of those spells from a fairy tale or from a kindly old witch with shocks of grey hair and dancing feet that laugh with gaiety. No…this spell came from the depths of the Earth, where demons and the most terrible monsters ever thought of, dwell; where hatred roams free and suffering is the motto of the inhabitants. Yes, that's the spell, the trance we've been put under. It has to lift sometime, right? We can't be under this spell forever…right?

Perhaps I'm still holding onto false, lingering hope. You would too if you were me. You would too.

I was too afraid to go back the way I had come, but I was too afraid to go forward…to go into the kitchen and retrieve what I had come for. So I just stood there. I couldn't move.

After a few, long agonizing seconds, though, he looked down, away from me. My eyes followed his and it was then I noticed the gun lying in his hands.

How did I know it would come this?

"Father."

"It's time, Peter. It's time." I could not say no. I could not shake my head and tell him he was being silly. I could not stop him.

I just could not say no.

"What would you have me do?"

…his eyes blink once…

…and then once more…

…but Silence…Dead Silence…Heart stopping Silence…The moment of truth.

"You've always been such a good son, Peter. Will you do it for me?"

Will you, rings through my head. Will I? Will I do it for him? Can I?

"Peter?"

_Will You, Peter, Will You? _His voice mocks in my head. Will I? Will I? Can I?

"End an old man's suffering son. Do it, please. For everyone's sake do it."

I was prepared for this moment. I knew it would come down to this, I knew he would want to try, I knew he would try, I knew he would ask me. I knew it. And then one question that had been ringing through my ears since I found out I knew; one question haunted me, one question constricted around my heart and slowly began to kill it, one question I had asked myself constantly:

Will you? Will you do it? Can you? Will I do it?

And the answer was always, unhesitatingly the same:

"No. You can't ask that of me father. There has to be another way. I won't let you do this to yourself." But I already knew my words were in vain, and I knew how he would react, and I knew…I knew this was the end for one of us.

His brows furrowed in anger, his dark eyes clouding over with pain and anger as the alcohol corrupted his brain.

And the question still rang in my ears. Will you do it…will I stop him?

I had to try and I already knew how, even if it meant my life…

…but apparently I had miscalculated. When I raised my eyes to stare at his dull, lifeless ones, the gun was pointed directly at my aching heart.

"It's for the best." I sadly whispered towards the stranger standing in my kitchen. I might as well have been in a strange alley in a land far away being mugged by a complete stranger who was holding a gun to my chest, threatening to kill me if I didn't give him my money…this was no different…no different except the man holding the gun was my father, or at least, at one time, he used to be my father.

His hard eyes still stared at me as he rushed forward. He shoved me backwards roughly. I toppled over as my legs came in contact with something lying on the floor and gave out underneath me. For a brief moment, terror like I had never felt before, gripped me tightly. As a child clutches at a safety blanket, gripping till their knuckles turn white and the blanket molds to their fingers, the terror held onto me. I held it in the palm of my hands for a few seconds, contemplating my decisions, before letting it go, letting it fly from my hand like a butterfly.

"Why can't you just do as I ask?" He screamed as he hovered over me, his gun still pointed at my fluttering heart.

But then his gaze softened and the darkness that had captured his eyes loosened their hold, and the demons that possessed his mind flew back to their nests; in that one sober moment he stared at me. In that one moment he was my father and not a monster, in that one moment he was the man I worshipped as a child and not a stranger, in that one moment lucidity and understanding shone through his bright eyes as tears streamed down his face. And I got a brief glimpse of my father, my real father, the real man behind the alcohol.

"I'm so sorry, Peter. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

…

…

"I understand, Father."

"I know you do, Peter, I know you do."

His gun pointed directly at me he whispered: "I never stopped loving you guys. I never meant…I never wanted…I'm sorry, Peter." Tears rolled down our cheeks as he pulled the trigger.

A loud, cruel shot of his gun exploded in the room, echoing throughout the house…and the moment just dragged on, time slowed down. The bullet burst from the barrel…Susan screamed from somewhere inside the house. Sobbing burst forth from the eyes and mouth of Lucy, Edmund began shouting, my mother cried wildly…and the bullet hit its mark.

And all I could do was silently stare at my father. My eyes traveled to the blood splattered across my shirt, then at Susan and Edmund who were rushing into the room. She was screaming, but I could hear nothing. Edmund was yelling, but I could hear nothing. They were right in front of me, but I could see nothing but the bullet piercing soft flesh and blood splattering across the space between us.

They're hands were trying to pull me away from the room, from…my Father, but I could not move.

"He said he was sorry."

"Oh Peter."

"He said he was sorry." And tears poured from eyes once more as I stared at the lifeless body lying not three feet away from me.

I could see the gun as he pointed it at himself, see the bullet as it…feel the blood, see his body fall to the floor…and I sat and stared in dead silence at the man who was once my father.

And his dark, blank eyes stared back at me…lost and alone, those dark eyes stared at me, and saw nothing, absolutely nothing…

And that's the truth…

**THE END**

* * *

Well, sadly, that's the end. I hope you guys enjoyed it, sorry if you don't like the ending, and thank you to everyone who reviewd and stuck with me despite my slowness. 


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